


something about us

by gingerfrost



Category: Motorcity
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerfrost/pseuds/gingerfrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike is in desperate romancey-style love with Chuck. Chuck is bad at romance, and things, and romance things, and not so sure about the love. But letting down Mike is a physical impossibility. Letting down Mike is committing the greatest sin known to mankind. Chuck will probably burst into flames and get dragged down into hell instantly, where all he'll ever see is Mike. Sad. Because of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Today is day four of the great heist of Mike Chilton's heart, and Chuck is the worst person in the entire universe, bar none.

Mike is seriously happy. Like, seriously. Chuck can't think of a time he's had quite this much energy to spare, and since it's _Mike_ these are levels unprecedented of sheer animation, a one-man dynamo, the world's handsomest power plant. You could hook him up to the car engines and they wouldn't skip a beat. Neither would Mike: he'd ask what else needed power. Mike effervesces happiness: like well he should, since he's a man given everything he ever wanted.

Chuck is coming to terms with the fact everything he ever wanted is, well, him.

That's not even taking into account how bad Mike's taste is: Chuck is a mess of a person. Chuck is a trainwreck. Chuck's points were not allotted in CHA. He has pipe cleaner arms and legs glued to a boxy, weedy torso fifth grade art project style. Freckles like melanoma's poking dots into his paste-white skin. A shag of hair exactly the consistency and color of dead straw, brushed down in his face to keep the world out, like when you tug your blanket up past your eyes when you're small. If you can't see the monsters, right? God, he's a wuss. A big, ugly weenie. If anyone asked what Mike's ideal dating material was, up until now, Chuck would've been sure the answer would be pointing him right in the wussy blanketed-eyes and saying 'the opposite of that'.

And then there's Mike Chilton, who gets _fan-mail,_ who has been proposed to on the street by both random women and men _sometimes simultaneously_ , who has a grin that's a million watts at least and who can do a handstand for over an hour, Mike Chilton who can save everyone in Detroit over seven times a week and still have time to hold Chuck and tell him everything is okay when Julie brings one of her kitten dolls and leaves it in the garage. Once Chuck needed to concentrate on programming, some fiddly tinkery little issue in a snip of code that was going to take five hours at _least_ to pluck out of the cobwebs of data lines. Mike cordoned off the entire living room special for him and sent Texas on a special mission all of his own, which turned out to be _extreme groceries._ Mike has seen Chuck cry and unslowly turn puffy and red and snivelly more times than should ever be necessary or sensible, and he wants him. He wants him _most._

Chuck sinks into despair like a punctured, draining waterbed. Mike keeps shooting him these _secret boyfriend grins_ , twining their fingers together under the table at Antonio's and drawing hearts into the thick skin of his palm. Mike _would_ be a gigantic romantic. It really, really figures.

Everything Mike does could be prefaced with the word 'boyfriend' now. He just has a way of affixing it to everything, like he's made the fact that he's dating Chuck an essential part of his aura. It's to the point where it would show up on psychic readings: well, your lifeline isn't shabby, Aries, right, oh, and I see you're Chuck's boyfriend. When they watch movies, Mike throws an arm around Chuck's shoulders and does the 'sneaky smile', the one he does when he thinks he's being a smooth operator. It is immensely unsubtle. Chuck squirms underneath Mike's arm, and Mike asks him if he needs another pillow. _Boyfriendly_ asks him if he needs another pillow.

Out on the road, he even slows down a whole mile per hour or two when Chuck asks. Chuck is horrified.

They go out to eat together, and Mike feeds Chuck a few french fries boyfriend-style with his fingers, which means Chuck has to try not to gag, or cry, or scream, or do a combination of two or god forbid all three. His body settles for 'albbkfhhgggghhh' for him, which is at least none of the above.

He chokes on the fry in the end, and Mike pats his back until it goes down the right tube.

_Boyfriend_ pats his back.

Chuck has been faking it until he hopes he finally makes it, and his making it levels have been hovering at something like 'maybe one day in the distant future'. He doesn't really get how he can love Mike so _goddamn much_ and this one, simple little thing won't click into place. He thinks there must be something wrong with him: an errant line of code in his brain, somewhere, that he can hunt down with judicious application of control-f, excise with the hot tongs of cursor and backspace key, and summarily fix.

Being gay is no big deal. It isn't the gay thing. Chuck's never had to think about whether or not he wanted to have -- gulp -- _sex_ with men, before, because _nobody_ wants to have -- again, gulp -- _sex_ with Chuck. He hasn't thought about it with Claire, either, which Texas found completely unbelievable in their late-night rounds of Never Have I Ever huddled in the dim-lit garage with the 5-percent-boozey contents of an ancient, sagging-metal, upturned delivery truck they'd cracked open. Chuck had sputtered out centuries since stale peach-mango cooler (could coolers be vintage, they'd wondered) and explained as best he could: he wants to look at Claire from a respectable distance and tell her she looks nice, honestly, and maybe if she wanted to kiss him sometimes, that would be alright, too. So, no, _Texas,_ he hasn't thought about sex. Not with Claire, not with any other girl, and definitely not with any other guy, or any... Mike.

The others had gone around the circle, dunked down their drinks to questions about whether or not they'd gotten off (which Chuck is only now remembering Mike has and judging by his other drinks it could very well have been _oh god oh god oh god oh god_ he's dumping that thought in the trashbin of his mind and forgetting it happened), made ooh and aah noises and teased just the right amount, and Chuck stared at his 5 percent alcohol peach-mango cooler and tried to fuse himself bodily to the cement of the garage floor. Chuck the carpet: now everyone can just get it over with and step on him literally.

The worst part, really, is that all of this is unintentional. He hadn't meant to unzip Mike's chest and write his name all over the place, Mike had done that on his own, which is incomprehensible in the same way as the abstract art Dutch does at 4 AM on no sleep and paint fumes. He must be a Mike from some weird parallel universe where Chuck is worth loving. This is the only explanation.

Looking back, he can kind of line up the dots and draw the conclusion for himself, see where Mike went wrong. Mike's always been quick to touch Chuck, to ruffle his hair or sling an arm around his shoulders, and in turn Chuck has never been shy about clinging to Mike like a dying man, which may be because he very, very frequently is on the verge of becoming a dying man. He's never had a reason to not be close to Mike. Personal space with them is negotiable, and Chuck had always thought they were just... comfortable. Fitting together, like someone's lined up their broken edges and found they match. Mike makes him feel safe, and it's backwards and ill-advised because Mike is also the man who has slingshotted them up 20 stories in a car with a grin that didn't waver once. But it's just how it is.

Most of what they do 'dating' is what they did anyway, not even a new package, just rebranded. Mike swings his arm around Chuck and tugs him in for hugs the same way, they go out driving and skirt the sound barrier together, wind blasting past and the road ahead hammering at them through the windshield. Now Chuck's been left to wonder what, exactly, of their daily routine had had Mike alone in his room in late-night agony, insides wound too taut thinking about them. The ifs. The buts.

When did what was only normal start eating Mike up? When did he start doing all these things -- ruffling his hair and slinging his arm around his shoulders -- and thinking, if only?

Chuck has an answer to that, and he wishes he didn't.

He knows when this started, and if he really wanted, he could probably pinpoint the exact moment that the meter in Mike's heart tipped over from Best Friend to desperately, direly In Love.

Chuck had been minding his own business. Chuck had been scared witless, which was par for the course. The par here being in Mutt, going a million and one miles an hour with Mike half-dead at the wheel and most of his blood kindly donated to Mutt's upholstery, which hopefully accepts B-positive. Be positive. Ha ha. Funny joke. God, even in his blood.

But right then, Chuck had wanted to scoop it wetly up into his cupped hands and pour it back into Mike's red-weeping chest. The thing about lasers was that if a Kanebot shot them at you, you would be dead and the wound would be precauterized by the blister heat of the beam. No mess. Just how Kane likes it. But no, no Kanebots here, this was an honest to god gash bisecting Mike. Of all the ways to be potentially punching out of Earth, it seemed black-humorous that what would finally, and, honestly, past overdue grimly reap Mike wouldn't be his fault at all.

It would be Chuck's.

By all rights, Mike should have been fine, and Chuck should have been the one seeping bodily fluids all over Mutt's interior. Well, okay. Not entirely Chuck's fault. Red's triumphant whoop when the saw-blades of his mock spark staff connected with the wrong target had been claim enough.

Of course it didn't kill him. Of course they made it back safely. But it's that moment, the one where Mike's hands on the wheel trembled slightly before he got himself under control again, that stuck in Chuck's memory. The others all exchanged meaningful looks when Mike was patched up with the least ratty, least yellowed bandages they had, and ghosted off. It left Mike and Chuck alone with the elephant in the room that was their own personal mortalities. And, more importantly: the fact that, at any time, on any mission, they could lose one another, and that's what really hurts. It's never the fear for their own lives. It's the fear for each other's.

They always knew that, but they hadn't known it, because they are teenagers, and they are idiots. Chuck's always been afraid he's going to die -- it's kind of a constant thing, fear's always beating down his doorstep -- but Mike? In Chuck's mind, Mike is invincible, he's bulletproof, he's too fast to see, let alone hit. Mike and the idea of death don't go together. Oil and water. Mike too quick around the edges to be held by the great unknown. If anyone can outrun death itself, it's Mike.

And now here he was, looking like a half man, half ketchup mummy, between the blood and the bandages. Like his seams had all been ripped out.

"I blew it," was what Mike said. "I really blew it, Chuck."

"Come on, bro. We made it out okay." Mike blaming himself is never anything new. If there was a sport, 'competitive blame yourself-ing', he would have more trophies than the garage had room for. "You didn't -- have to do that," Chuck whispered. "Save me, and all."

Mike shot him a look, the kind that meant he was lining up the words in his head for a pep talk. "Uh, yes I did. Red's beef isn't with you. It's with me. He was just trying to get to me, and let's face it, you're the quickest way. I'm not letting you get hurt because of that."

"Mike," Chuck started, then stopped again, his tongue feeling dry. "I know you're always on my case about the whole believing in myself thing, and I am so trying to listen to you. Just let me have the next few sentences without interrupting and getting all leader-y on me, okay? You can go back to telling me how great I am right after, promise."

Breathe. Had to remember to do that breathing thing. Right.

"You are pretty much the best guy in the world, Mike. You're saving our butts every day of the week and you don't even make a big deal about it. Like it's no big thing that I would be, I don't know, dead or worse by now without you. You got hurt making sure I didn't get mangled. You think I'm worth saving even if it means you're the one who's going home bleeding, and I don't even know how to deal with that. If my words were working right, which they really, really are not, I'd probably be trying to say you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I wish I was as great as you think I am so I really deserved you, and oh, geez, I'm just going to stop talking now and let you have a turn."

Breathing resumed again.

The look on Mike's face was weirdly intent, like something worth seeing was behind Chuck. He actually did look, craning his head back, but all there was was empty garage, so his attention was back to Mike. "What? Uh, was that too weird? Dude, I didn't mean to get all sappy here. That was a couple tree's worth, at least, I guess the Terras are gonna have it out for me now. Oh god. Oh god! Bad jokes, so not the time." He remembers sinking into his seat, his palms going up to hide his cheeks and, subsequently, his shame. 

"No!" Mike jolted back to reality to shake his head and hold his hands up, like someone had unpaused him. "No, Chuckles, not weird at all." He reached forward, took Chuck's hands in his, splitting his fingers apart and brushing his hair out of the way so their eyes met. Mike hesitated for the barest second before:

"I get it. I know, Chuck." Before Chuck could say anything, redeem himself in the slightest, Mike kept going. He kept going, and what he said was:

"I don't know what I'd do without you. Who cares about the scratches, you're what keeps me safe, man. If I get zapped on a mission then whatever, but you -- I can't see you hurt. Not going to happen. Not while I'm here. I can't," he said, and stopped for a moment, his voice cracking. "I can't risk losing you. Not because of something I did, not because of anything. You're the best thing I've got, Chuck, and I love you."

Was he crying?, Chuck had thought, frantic. So far out of his comfort zone he may as well have been in outer space. He was crying. Oh, no, no, no no no. No. Stop the world, Chuck wanted to get off. Chuck had never seen Mike cry before, and now he knew that he never, never would have wanted to. His stomach was bottoming out of him the same way it does when Mike takes them over a jump, the same queasy falling feeling.

"Yeah," Chuck said, his voice wavering. That had been, more or less, what he'd been saying, in his fumbling way, like he's dredging the words up out of quicksand. "You too, Mikey."

He hadn't been lying. That's the thing, really. He had never lied.

He's not even lying now, when Mike shows up in his bedroom and says he just wants to hold him for a while, if that's okay, and buries his face into the crook of Chuck's neck to breathe against his pulse. Chuck's chest hurts like a hand's inside twisting up his veins, seeing Mike so vulnerable.

He always seems so much bigger in Chuck's head than he really is, standing proud and tall right up into the ceiling-sky, like nothing can hurt him. Chuck's not going to be the one to test that hypothesis. Not again.

He wasn't lying to Mike when he told him he loved him, and he's not lying now when he says it's fine for him to stay there and sleep and expose his Achilles heart. He's just waiting, he thinks, watching Mike's chest go in and out in time with Chuck's own.

He knows when Mike fell in love. He's just waiting to know when he will, too.


	2. Chapter 2

The confession-that-wasn't had only been stupid move number one -- that one moment where he said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, could have fixed everything by being able to say what he meant. All of it.

Stupid move number two was a week later.

Mike asks for nothing from them. He's Mister Perfect Leader, always got their backs and asking for nothing in return. So when Mike showed up and asked if Chuck has a moment to talk, of _course_ Chuck said yes. He said yes so fast he thought he'd broken a few of Mutt's records.

So Mike had leaned himself against Chuck's wall, picking at his jacket pockets, Chuck flopped onto his bed, brushing his hair out of his eyes for a moment to peer at Mike.

"When you asked if we could talk I thought it would actually involve... talking," Chuck prompted. Gently.

"I was wondering if you wanted to give dating a shot?" Mike blurted, and somehow managed to get his face into a supremely un-Mike awkward, shy grin, scratching at the back of his neck.

Chuck's mouth opened, and then closed. And opened again. Oh.

There are a lot of things to be surprised about here, but the one the gears of Chuck's brains were really sticking on was that _Mike_ wanted to go out with _him._ Chuck hadn't really had a lot of people -- _interested._ Like, romantically. Or in other, non-romance ways. Chuck is off everyone's radar and that's how he likes it. Mike is an easy shadow to hide in, anyway, who would ever pay attention to him when there's _Mike?_ See again: Mike's fan-mail and proposals. The closest thing Chuck's ever gotten to fan-mail, let alone a _proposal,_ is once someone couldn't find Mike's comm number, so they asked Chuck to forward their poetry to him.

And Mike -- Awesome Badass Burner Leader Smart Funny Caring Wunderkind Pick Your Adjectives And Descriptive Nouns Mike -- was, in person, where he could see Chuck sweat and wring his hands and generally not be dating material in the least, asking him to _date._

"Why?" Chuck finally squeaked. His throat was very dry. Mike blinked at the question, and Chuck scrambled to clarify, all the crappy implications settling in. "No, no, I mean, because you've never... said... things... about wanting to? Before?" he managed. His voice squeaked.

"Because I figured you might want to," Mike replied, which was a really simple way to explain it and also the nicest possible. Chuck was impressed. Also nauseous.

See, letting down Mike is a physical impossibility. Letting down Mike is committing the greatest sin known to mankind. Chuck will probably burst into flames and get dragged down into hell instantly, where all he'll ever see is Mike. Sad. Because of _him._

"I don't know, Mikey..." Chuck winced as soon as he'd said it. Maybe the cutesy-poo nickname was a bad idea in this context. "Do _you_ want to?" The ol' switcharoo. So blatant. He was so bad at this.

Mike's "Yes" had a startling vehemence, and he turned to fall into the bed next to Chuck, splayed out with his fingertips ghosting along the adjacent wall.

"I thought maybe it was weird to ask. Leader and all. Things might get... awkward with the gang, or wreck stuff between us." Of course that was his consideration. His mouth was the thin line of a distant frown. Not upset (yet, Chuck panicked), just thoughtful. "But I can't shake it. I'd stay up late thinking about just the dumb little stuff, right? Holding hands. Going to sleep with you the last thing I see. Waking up the same way. And that's what's really been killing me. And -- I don't know, I thought maybe you felt the same way, too."

Sort of, Chuck wanted to reply, and caught himself before he did. Mike had laid a lot at his feet, concise as it was. Because that sounded a whole lot like Mike was in for _actual, romantic love,_ the kind in movies and books, not just a week of awkward make-outs and then over and done.

"I know this is out of the blue and putting you on the spot. It's fine if you don't want to, y'know," Mike added.

Which didn't help at all.

Chuck could have told him the truth. Which is that he loves him, in the way where he'll strap himself into a metal death-canister going over 300 miles per hour every single day because Mike's right there with him. That's pretty big. That's love.

But it's not the right kind.

The other option, however, was saying no, and Chuck took one look at Mike, who looked back up at him from his bed with the kind of half-furrowed brow and slight twist in his mouth that say he was waiting for a yes or no for the heart he's dumped in Chuck's lap.

"Okay, sure," Chuck said, "I mean, it can't really hurt to try."

Stupid move number two. And now he's just waiting for number three.

He gets his chance soon enough. The low buzz of an incoming message wakes Chuck up at should-be-asleep-o'clock. It's Mike, grinning small and coy and standing in the garage with Mutt's engine puttering. Because it's Mike, and Chuck would follow him to the end of the Earth and back, all it takes is a 'get in here' before he's struggling into a t-shirt and jeans. He trots over in post-dream fog, giving Mike a sleepy, accusatory glare.

"Alright, even _Kane_ isn't crazy enough to send out bots at 3:43 AM exactly. What's up?"

Mike motions to Mutt behind him with a nod. "Up for a ride?"

Chuck groans. The last time this happened, caffeine had been involved, and he had had Mike swear never so much as think the words 'energy drink' again. "I'm up for going back to _sleep,_ Mike, c'mon. What is it?"

"Just come with me." Mike's eyes are bright, like they are when he's struck gold (more usually explosives) when they go junk diving. That is a _terrible_ sign, but it also means that Chuck's ability to refuse him is exactly nil. He's already buckling himself in and regretting his life choices, the list of which he's running through his head. Number one: met Mike. Number two: talked to Mike. Number three: stayed with Mike even after realizing that he is completely and utterly certifiable.

The road Mike takes them on isn't one Chuck is familiar with, and he can't decide if that's cause for alarm in and of itself or not. Mike and novelty tend to go together about the same way as fire and _something extremely flammable:_ fun to watch, but stand back and wear safety gear if you've got it.

Much to his surprise, the drive is... nice. It's lazy by Mike's standards, clocking in at about 130 in the slow spots, and he finds himself dipping down in the seat comfortably, watching the scenery go by. Being able to see the scenery at all, not just the gobbets of color and bright scratches of light on dark that the landscape turns into when they hit top speed, is new. Chuck can even forgive him gunning it for a few jumps, because it must be driving Mike absolutely nuts to be restraining himself, and he makes them neatly anyway. All four tires on the ground. Chuck's been palpitation-free for fifteen whole minutes, and that's the going record.

The stop is abrupt, Mike skidding Mutt to a halt. The destination doesn't look like anything special: an old, hollow skyscraper that nobody's played hermit-crab to just yet. There's plenty of those littering Motorcity, places still haunted by the ghosts that lived or worked there back before Deluxe. The population density isn't what it was once.

He motions them inside, and Chuck follows dutifully, if dubiously. "Do I get to know what's going on, yet?"

"Not yet. Hey, I thought I was supposed to be the impatient one? Cool your jets. Or use 'em to get up all these flights of stairs with me." Mike's already striding through the junk, the rubble of lives people packed up and left. All of the desks with nondescript form papers still floating on the wood.

"You sure these stairs don't just go on _forever?_ "

"Pretty sure. Do you need me to carry you, dude?"

"No." Chuck rolls his eyes, solely for his own benefit, of course. He's not so sure Mike was joking about that offer. Chuck notices him slowing considerably a few flights up to compensate for Chuck wearing out, and he tries not to breathe so hard, to speed it up a little. Chuck counts the floor numbers as they go by, his hand brushing across the faded 15.

The issue with how many floors this stupid thing has -- besides that it's probably over fifty, and it's Mike, so there's no _way_ they're stopping at a nice, normal number like 20 -- is only in part that Chuck feels like his legs are going to start ignoring him and just quit while they're ahead. Worse, the mechanical up-down of his feet leaves his brain alone to think. Mike glances back now and again with his lips quirked up at the edges ( _secret boyfriend smile,_ Chuck's mind helpfully supplies the label) and Chuck recoils like he's been stung.

Chuck bats away intrusive thoughts like flies, little nasty bitey ones like 'you should tell him' and 'you _need_ to tell him' trying to sink into his skin. He can't. He can't do that to Mike. Chuck has had nightmares about disappointing Mike, and the idea of Chuck trying to put into words his stark, inverse version of Mike's own confession has an angry gravity to it, the same way a black hole does.

The exit sign -- long since sputtered out and died -- propped above the push-door out onto the roof is a welcome sight. Mike butts the door open with his elbow, holding it for Chuck when he passes through.

The city's lit up neon on black, signs and lights winking up at them. Mike hops up onto the guardrail, swinging his hips over it and pulling himself into a perch, gargoyle-style. His eyes are intent, wide and reflecting the city's colors back out at it.

"Here you go. The big surprise. Not sure if it's worth the climb, but hey..."

Chuck tugs his hair from his eyes, tracing Mike's steps with his own. He doesn't clamber onto the rail alongside him, because he isn't fucking stupid. Chuck appreciates the city from the other side of it, leaned against the bars and peering out into the dark. He's still winded from the stairs, but the sight -- so many people, so much life, even in a dead place -- almost makes him forget about the itch in his lungs. "It sure is pretty."

"Sure is," Mike echoes, laughing. He leans back into Chuck's chest, fists holding him tight to the rail. "And it's mine."

That requires more explanation, and Mike waits a second to provide. "MC's really something, you know? Everybody down here's got a reason to be. It'd be so much easier to head up to Deluxe. But they stick around and they keep this place lit up because they believe in something, and it's worth almost dying for. Every day. And my reason for almost dying every day? Is because they're almost dying every day. I want them to have the choice. Every one of those lights."

Chuck can feel the lump rising in his throat. Mike is private with his thoughts about himself. For all that the world -- _their_ world, anyway -- revolves around him, Mike has never asked it to. Now he's spilling open for him suddenly, like Chuck's dropped him and he's split. None of them are good at poetry -- even Dutch admits that words aren't his thing, he thinks in ROYGBIV and shape and texture -- but Chuck is pretty sure that's what that just was. Poetry just for him.

"All of you guys have your own things going on, you know? You've got your LARP stuff, Julie's got her job and Claire, Dutch has his art, Tex has..." He waves his hand. "Whatever it is Tex does. Me -- I've got Motorcity. I've got coming up here and making sure the place is still full of lights." His hand goes to the crook of Chuck's arm, pulling him in against him sideways. "And now I've got you," he says soft.

He leans in, and Chuck knows what's going to happen, but he doesn't move, going still. Defense mechanism, he guesses. It's too late: Mike's eyes are closed, and he presses their foreheads together gently before he does anything, looking far away and lost with his lashes dark half-circles on his cheeks, breathing slow and deliberate. It is impossibly romantic. It is worth novels.

So this is the part, Chuck thinks dimly when he finally kisses him, where things fall into place. This is the part where the puzzle falls together and he realizes he _does_ want Mike, he really does.

Fireworks do not go off. He does not see stars. It does not fix Chuck. He is still broken and he still is not in love with Mike.

Chuck yanks back, breaking the kiss a little more forcefully than he'd meant to, and Mike looks for a second like he's lost his grip and he's going to tilt over the edge of the building, which gives Chuck a heart murmur. Mike catches himself, slouching back. "Too much?" he asks, sounding devastatingly okay with this.

"No, no, Mike, that's not it." Chuck wipes the awkward advances of tongue from his mouth, and only realizes how much of a dick move that is into the back of his hand. He can't. Two weeks and he _can't do this._ Before he'd been hoping something would fit, Mike would find the magic words, Chuck would have an epiphany while wound into Mike on the couch and his heart would reboot and go, _whoa, what have you been waiting for?_

 _Where are you going with this?_ Chuck's mind asks him, like it's settling back to watch the massacre of his ego. It's made popcorn.

"I just," he says, and tries to find words. His brain is working like someone's dribbled molasses in the processor. "Don't hate me?"

"What, for what? Was my breath bad or something? Come on, it's not like you can't tell me my breath is bad, Chuck."

"I can't date you," Chuck blurts.

"Oh," Mike replies.

The moment hangs. Chuck wants to explain himself, to tell him that he's so, so sorry, but he is an incompetent imbecile and he can't even do that right. He's always so worried about Mike getting them into a crash, and here _he_ is, the one who broke everything.

"That's fine," Mike says, and shrugs minutely. He really does sound fine, too. "I know I move a little fast sometimes. If you aren't cool with it, then we'll call it off." That sounds _rehearsed._ Chuck had expected -- well, he didn't know what he'd expected. Getting upset isn't very Mike, not unless it's _righteous anger_.

But he'd expected more than this. More than nothing, anyway. Disappointment. Sadness. Something. He doesn't even bother to try to correct Mike. Trying to say anything, _anything,_ is what got him in this mess.

"Do you want me to drive you back?" Mike questions through the fog in Chuck's brain.

"Yeah," Chuck says, dazed, gnawing at his bottom lip, which is bleeding, but he hasn't noticed that yet. "Yeah, I guess that would be good."

They walk back down every single flight of stairs. Mike does not offer to carry him again. They don't really say much of anything, actually. Chuck doesn't even try. The ride back isn't even slow ("slow") like the one in had been, but he doesn't scream once. All it means is that he gets to collapse into bed and hate himself faster.

"'Night, Chuckles," Mike says amiably, and where he'd taken to ruffling Chuck's hair fondly or tugging him in for a hug, his hands are shoved away in his pockets instead. For a second he looks like he's going to -- Chuck would even welcome it -- but he turns and saunters off anyway.

Like nothing happened.

And it's as well as it could have gone, really, but for some reason Chuck has to cry a little bit before he finally goes back to bed.


End file.
